UNCLEAN HANDS
Notwithstanding the verdict of the Hampton Coroner, the police,
whose interest was aroused by the curious reports of strange
happenings at the Guest House, commenced to make inquiries regarding
the deceased man’s strange visitor.
The record of the romance and history of the place, as published in
the Richmond newspaper, had drawn their attention to it, inasmuch as
Mr. Gray was questioned by the Richmond police and reluctantly
admitted his strange attack and narrow escape.
The Criminal Investigation Department explored all sorts of channels
to discover the old man Bettinson, who had been fairly clearly
described to the doctor by his patient. There were two well-known
collectors of antique furniture of that name, it was found--one a
dealer having a shop in Chester, who was a man of thirty-five who had
recently succeeded to the business of his dead father; a second was a
solicitor in Plymouth, who was well-known and of ample means, but in
no way resembled the odd old fellow who had appeared at the Guest
House; while a third, a man living near Harwich, was reported to have
purchased some old furniture for an ancient house he had bought
outside Ipswich.
The search was, after all, only a half-hearted one, for on the face of
it the dead man’s statement was rather too fantastic to be credited by
many, while it seemed certain that if the old man had actually paid a
visit to the house of mystery with any evil intent he would hardly
have given his real name.
When Etta Wyndcliffe had been shown the telegram by her niece, she had
merely shrugged her shoulders, and said:
“That house is evidently a house of evil, my dear! I can’t see how you
can possibly live in it.”
She had been watching with critical eyes the enjoyment of the happy
pair at winter sports. Thanks to the expert tuition of John, the
guide, they were now able to ski quite well, and do “stem turns” and
“telemarks” in very fair fashion. Indeed, they had both passed their
third-class test, and now each morning they took the yellow automobile
up to the Seelibühl peak, and then ran down over the powdery snow
through the Happy Valley back to the hotel, a spin of wild delight as
the snow hissed beneath their skis.
Etta Wyndcliffe was not at all pleased at the turn which events were
taking. She remembered those parting words of Albert Ashe, her
exemplary butler, the man who held such a strange influence over her.
She remembered, too, old Routh’s declaration that Sibell must marry
Gussie Gretton, and did not fail to foresee that such a union would
bring them both a handsome profit.
Etta Wyndcliffe was out for money always. Smart, clever, and utterly
unscrupulous from the time she was at school, she took the fat checks
from the mothers of the girls she chaperoned, and was hawk-like in her
efforts to get them married, with further pecuniary profit to herself.
In this she was not unique in London society. There were fully a dozen
like her, hard-up women with old titles and without money, ready to do
any dirty, underhand action, or to sell a girl, body and soul, in the
marriage market so long as it brought them a substantial check which
would most certainly be frittered away at baccarat and “chemmy.”
That afternoon, as she sat at tea in the big hall with the young North
London doctor and her pretty niece, her active mind reverted to that
parting with Ashe in West Halkin Street, when in secret the man had
whispered to her, “I’ll meet you again soon, Etta. We’re out for a big
stake. And we’ll win--never fear.”
She glanced through her cigarette smoke at the handsome, happy pair at
the table before her and wondered. Would they win? She doubted it.
The check which she knew Gussie Gretton would slip into her hand, on
the day of his marriage to Sibell, was daily disappearing into the
ether. Time after time she had tried by most subtle means to sow
dissension between the pair, but all to no purpose. Their affection
was complete; and, to her fear, it would be lasting.
Brinsley Otway was always charming to her, though instinctively he
knew that she was no friend of his. He studiously gave her every
attention, dancing with her each night, and never failing to behave
with the acme of courtesy and charm.
Etta Wyndcliffe had written to old Gordon Routh a long letter in which
she realized the hopelessness of parting the pair, and asked his
advice and suggestions. On the other hand, Ashe, after his vague
threat on the last occasion they had met, had entirely disappeared.
She had written him on the second day of their arrival at Gurnigel,
but had had no acknowledgment.
This fact caused her great apprehension. Was he really playing the
game? She knew his hard, bitter nature, his unreliability, his quick
resentment, and his ready shiftiness. She had trusted him for several
years, and he knew certain secrets of hers. But of late she had slowly
realized that he would hesitate at nothing, or even sacrifice her, in
order to gain his own despicable ends. And his estimate of her was a
very similar one.
That night she sent a marconigram to him, addressed to an obscure
sporting club in the Adelphi, where he went every day for his letters.
Next day at noon she received a reply which ran:
“Meet me at the Schweizerhof Hotel in Berne on Thursday at noon.
Important.”
Hence, on the Wednesday evening, pleading to the happy couple that she
had some shopping to do in Berne and also had to make a call upon an
English lady friend who was married to a Swiss doctor, she took the
car down the sixteen miles of winding, snowy road to the capital and
put up at the Schweizerhof, that big hotel facing the railway station.
She engaged a private sitting-room and bedroom, so that their
interview should be a secret one. That night, as she ate her dinner
alone, she wondered with what object he was travelling so suddenly out
to see her.
Wyndcliffe had arrived in New York a week before, and she hoped he
would remain there, for there was not the slightest spark of affection
between them. When in London he was only an incubus. True, he
meandered around with her to the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and
Belgravia, just for the appearance of the thing, but he was always
pestering her for money and deploring the cost of everything.
Money had come to her niece, it was true, but how could she profit by
the sudden turn of fortune?
Impatiently she awaited from her window the arrival of the Oberland
express from Boulogne, until at last she descried Ashe’s tall, burly
figure in a dark overcoat, followed by a hotel porter carrying his
suitcase, crossing the wide square to the hotel.
Five minutes later he entered her sitting-room, and, throwing off his
travelling-coat, cast himself into a chair.
He explained that he had breakfasted on the train after passing the
frontier at Delle, and then lit a cigarette.
“Well?” she asked, leaning against the table and facing him. “What’s
the matter?”
“A lot,” he snapped. “Lock the door and speak in whispers.”
When she had crossed the room and bolted the door, he looked straight
into her face, and said in a low, serious voice:
“We’re in an infernally tight corner, Etta!”
“How?” she asked apprehensively.
“Rupert is in London!”
“Rupert!” she gasped, and in an instant her lips blanched as a look of
terror overspread her face.
“Yes,” he whispered. “And he knows a lot--a damned lot more than is
good for us!”
“You’ve seen him, eh?” she gasped.
“I’ve seen him. But he hasn’t seen me.”
“That’s good. What are we to do?”
“I’ve come here to talk the matter over with you, my dear Etta,” said
the ex-butler. “We’ve got to face the music. That’s plain.”
“How?”
Her visitor paused for some moments, his dark, narrow eyes set upon
hers.
“For God’s sake,” she cried, “don’t look at me like that, Albert!”
“Do you forget how we parted in that little hotel in Norfolk Street?”
he asked, still gazing at her intently.
“You threatened to--to----” And she paused.
“I simply pointed out to you the only way in which we could save
ourselves if Rupert came to London,” he said quietly. “Well--he’s
come! It’s now up to us to take the initiative. You know what I mean,
don’t you?” And he looked steadily into her eyes.
“You mean what you hinted at when we last met!” she cried suddenly,
covering her face with her white, bejewelled hands.
“You defied me! You told me that you forbade it, Etta,” he said quite
quietly. “Well, if you wish to have the whole sordid story exposed in
a criminal court and go to prison perhaps for the remainder of your
life, you can do so,” he went on, with an air of nonchalance.
“Personally, I intend to save myself, whatever your decision may be.”
“No, Albert, don’t desert me; no, I beg of you,” cried the unhappy
peeress. “I’ve always stuck to you.”
“Except when you grow chicken-hearted, as you did at Norfolk Street,
and--and once when you thought you could feather your nest without my
help.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in instant defiance.
“Oh, nothing,” he said sneeringly.
“I demand to know what is passing through your mind!” she cried, her
fists clenched as she stood before him.
“Only one simple little incident,” he answered, with a faint smile.
“The tragic death of that poor little American girl Heula Murray on
board the Nile boat an hour before it was moored at Assouan. She died
of pneumonia, didn’t she?”
“You swine!” she cried, striking him full in the face with her fist.
“I know what you insinuate,” she cried. “But it’s a lie--a damned lie,
and you shall prove it. You’ve hinted at that before. You were with
me!”
“I was--as your servant. But, my dear Etta, don’t get excited,” he
said, his face reddened where she had struck him. “I don’t intend to
give you away, even though I have retained a certain little capsule
which was hermetically sealed before you broke it open. No, my dear
girl, don’t worry. It isn’t worth while. Please understand that we’re
both sailing in the same boat, and if you go on the rocks I’ll go with
you. But we are going to steer clear, into smooth waters, or I’m much
mistaken.”
“How?” asked Lady Wyndcliffe, with frantic effort to calm herself.
“By taking matters in our own hands. You will have to meet Rupert.”
“Meet him! Never!” she cried, horrified at the mere thought.
“He’s in search of you; let him find you, and become friendly with
him. Disarm his suspicion, and then----” And he paused.
“And then? Ah! I know what you mean.”
“Well, that’s the only way, my dear Etta. Believe me, it is.”
“I can’t. It would be impossible. I couldn’t do it, Albert,” she
declared decisively.
“Very well. Then I fear you’ll have to face the consequences, if you
don’t make up the quarrel,” Ashe said. “He’s in London in search of
you, and he’ll send you to penal servitude. You’ll go there as sure as
my name’s Albert, if you don’t try and save yourself. Just think!” he
went on. “Aren’t we both on the brink of disaster? You’ve allowed
young Otway to carry off our only decent asset, the girl Sibell. If
Gussie Gretton had married her you’d have got a fat commission out of
it. But, as it is, there’s nothing for us.”
“But there may be,” said Lady Wyndcliffe. “If a quarrel arose between
the pair and they parted, Gussie might easily step into the breach and
console her for the falsity of this young medico. And Gussie, on
marrying a rich wife, would double his commission to us. Don’t forget
that.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Ashe. “I never thought of that. You’re darned
clever, Etta--one of the cleverest women I know. The worst of it is
that after the affair of that little American girl in Egypt, which
reaped you in a full five thousand pounds, you are so very punctilious
over dealing with an enemy.”
“Because I now trust nobody,” she snapped. “Once I trusted you, but I
have ever since had occasion to regret it.”
“Thanks, my dear girl, you are really most polite,” he laughed, with
mock courtesy. “But, you see, I, too, don’t put any faith in you.
Nevertheless, if you don’t stick by me, you can do the reverse. I
shall leave Berne to-night, and I sha’n’t care for you, or for the
future. I know how to save myself. I prepared my channel of escape
long ago.”
The Countess of Wyndcliffe took her gold cigarette-case from her bag,
and, opening it, slowly selected a cigarette. She tapped it quietly
and then lit it, first going to the window to gaze out on the trams
passing across the square before the station.
When she had repassed across the room she suddenly halted before the
man who, though posing as her obsequious butler in West Halkin Street,
seemed now to be her master, and said:
“Well, Albert. Let me hear your suggestions.”
“I have two. The one carries with it the other. The first is that you
must resume your relations with Rupert--in pretence of courage. The
second is that Sibell and young Otway must be parted at all
hazards--by you.”
“Then the girl must be part of the sacrifice, eh?” asked her aunt,
with knit brows.
“It can’t be helped. There’s no money for us if they marry. And old
Routh is also out for profit. I saw him in London the other day, and
he’s dead against the marriage and Sibell’s money slipping away from
us all.”
“But about Rupert? Do you think he can be kept quiet, after all that’s
happened?”
“Only by you,” he said, with a sudden change in his voice from
defiance to softness. “You know what a seductive little devil you can
be when you like, Etta. God! you can charm any man of any age.”
“And without--without a tragedy. Assure me of that?” she said eagerly.
Albert Ashe remained silent for a few moments. He was asked for an
assurance which he had not expected he would be called upon to give.
“Well,” he said evasively at last, “if you call the parting of Sibell
from her lover a tragedy, that can’t be avoided. The girl is rich, and
she’ll soon console herself with the smart and popular Gussie, who is
such a splendid dancer, so good-looking, and with whom dozens of girls
are madly in love. He’s essentially a lady’s man, not like that
big-headed, big-eyed, thoughtful doctor out at Golder’s Green. All
that I leave to you,” he went on. “But time presses. Leave the
turtledoves at Gurnigel for the present, and slip back to London to
meet Rupert and make it up with him. We can deal with the lovers later
on. It will only be a question of a week or two.”
“But, Albert, I--I really don’t know how to act--what to do--how I can
possibly----”
“Rot!” he cried angrily. “Let me guide you, and let’s both climb out
of the soup as soon as possible with a nice little bank balance to the
credit of both of us--instead of appearing side by side at the Old
Bailey, as we will certainly do if you act the fool any longer. Don’t
you agree?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Yes,” she said in a low, hoarse whisper. “I do agree, Albert. I see
that I must. Sibell must be parted from Brinsley.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’m glad you at last see reason. So go to work
with your clever woman’s wiles as soon as you possibly can. Get back
to London at once and meet dear Rupert, and greet him with regret as
his long-lost friend. He must never suspect that I’m in England. But
I will be behind you to advise you and bring you to triumph.”
And he put out his well-manicured hand, which the Countess of
Wyndcliffe grasped in an unholy contract for the sale of an innocent
girl’s soul.